Logan
Chapter twenty-seven
I feel more at peace lying in bed with Tessa’s head resting on my chest, her arm draped across my waist, than I have in a long time.
I wasn’t expecting things to heat up as quickly as they did between us when I showed up here, but after two days away from her, it felt like my entire being—body, heart, and soul—was desperate to feel her again.
It would have been so fucking easy to come down her throat, but watching her squirm between my legs while trying to take all of me had me aching to get my hands on her.
I thought she might ask me to leave when we finished getting cleaned up, but instead, she crawled into bed and pulled the blankets back, patting the space beside her.
“Did you still wanna talk, darlin’?” I ask, trailing my fingers gently over her upper arm.
Her arm tightens briefly across my waist, hugging me from where she lies curled against my side. “It feels weird to say now after… all that,” she says, her voice soft.
“You can tell me anything. Even if all you need from me is to be a listening ear,” I assure her.
I don’t ever want her to be nervous or afraid to talk to me about something, no matter what it is.
If I’ve learned anything in my life, both within personal relationships and from what I’ve experienced at work, open communication with the people you care about is important.
Even when it feels like it's too much or too awkward to express, no good ever comes from keeping the heavy things inside.
She’s quiet for a few moments. I almost think she’s not going to say whatever it is that’s been weighing on her mind, but then she pulls in a deep lungful of breath and says, “I went to the bridge today.”
The bridge.
The place where she lost her husband. The words to ask her why she went there are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice them.
Not yet. The tension in her body tells me there’s more, but I don’t want to drag anything out of her.
If there’s something she wants me to know or thinks I should, I want her to be able to tell me on her own.
“I’ve always been the type of person who keeps a journal,” she starts.
“When he died, I lost the person I confided in the most, and I guess… I wanted a way to still be able to talk to him, so my journal became that outlet. Instead of writing down thoughts and memories for myself, I started writing as if I was talking to him.” She sighs, pulls in another deep breath, then continues.
“The bridge gave me a place to go when I felt like I needed to talk to him. I mean… sometimes, I still do in other places. Like sitting in the car or when I’m home alone.
Or I used to. The other day, I realized it’s been a while since I’ve talked to him.
It’s been a while since I felt like I needed to. ”
A warm sensation fills my chest, and I move my hand to her waist, pulling her in close.
I have a feeling I know where she’s going with this, but a selfish piece of me wants to hear the words, to know that being with me has filled a void in her heart.
I don’t dare speak and interrupt her train of thought, but waiting for what she says next feels like standing on the edge of a precipice without being able to see what’s at the bottom.
“So… I sat down and wrote him a letter, and for the first time in six years, what I wrote wasn’t about Jake or me or how much I wish he were still here.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, and my throat burns with the force of holding back the emotion.
Her hand slides over my bare skin and settles in the center of my chest, my heart thumping against her palm. “I wrote about you,” she murmurs, and the dam breaks.
The force building behind my eyes gives way, and I squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to hold back the brimming tears, but it’s no use. A few slide down my cheek, and I move to wipe them away before she notices. “About me?” I question, surprise lacing my voice.
“I know it’s silly, but it felt good to tell him, to say it out loud.
I don’t know what I believe as far as what happens to someone once they’re gone, but I’d like to believe that, somehow, he’s been watching over Jake.
And if he is, I guess I just want him to know that we’re doing well, that we’re happy, and that I met someone.
It’s been six years, and yet going to the bridge to read this last letter out loud, it felt like finally closing the door on my past. And…
well, I guess I just wanted you to know. I’m all in.”
I told her the same thing during our date to the botanical garden, and she’s repeated them before, but this feels different.
More meaningful. I didn’t have any doubts before as far as where I stood, but hearing her say she has closed the door on her past and she’s all in with me eases any hint of doubt that may have been lingering.
I would never try to replace the love she has lost, but I also don’t want to feel like I’m in competition with a ghost.
I roll to my side, and with my arm around her, I pull her close, using my other hand to tip her chin up and bring her lips to mine.
The kiss is short and sweet, and her body relaxes into me as the tension she was holding in her shoulders finally melts away. The golden flecks in her green irises sparkle in the dim lighting of the room as she breaks the kiss and our gazes collide, a soft smile spreading across her face.
“I suppose you’re going to ask me to leave now, huh?
” I chuckle, sitting up as I prepare to slip out of her bed and throw my clothes back on so I can do exactly that.
As much as I would love to stay and spend the rest of the night with her, to wake up next to her in the morning, it’s not an issue I care to push.
“What if you stayed?” she asks, reaching a hand out to stop me.
It’s like she can read my mind. “Really?”
“Please. I want you to. I’m ready.”
I have always been an early riser. I could have stayed in bed for hours watching Tessa sleep soundly beside me, with her body curled against mine.
At some point during the night, we had both rolled over, so her back was to my chest and my arm was around her waist, holding her close.
I woke up in that same position, and I pulled her closer as I brushed her hair to the side, nuzzled into her, and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck.
My cock was already hard against the curve of her ass, and being buried between her thighs first thing in the morning sounded like the perfect way to start the day, but when the idea struck me to surprise her with breakfast, I couldn’t ignore it.
Hopefully, she won’t mind that I’ve rummaged through the pantry and refrigerator to find what I need. There’s hot, fresh coffee waiting for when she wakes, and I’m working on a stack of pancakes when I hear small footsteps walking down the hall toward the kitchen.
Jake’s sandy blond hair is a mess from sleep, and he rubs at his eyes, blinking repeatedly in an effort to wake up. “Logan,” he shouts excitedly. “Why are you here?” The accusation in his little voice has a laugh ripping from my chest as I add a few pancakes to the stack.
“Good morning to you, too,” I laugh. “Are you hungry? I made pancakes.”
His eyes flick to the platter, and he smiles.
“Yes!” He scurries in and climbs up to sit at one of the barstools at the counter.
It takes opening a few different drawers before I find the one with the silverware.
Grabbing a fork, I use it to stab two pancakes and add them to a plate, setting them in front of him along with the bottle of maple syrup.
I pour another scoop of batter into the skillet before leaning my back against the opposite counter beside the stove, watching him as he stares at the plate with a frown.
“No peanut butter?”
“You put peanut butter on your pancakes?” I ask. I can’t say I’ve ever tried the combination.
“And syrup.”
I laugh. “Alright, bud. Where’s the peanut butter?”
He points to the cupboard beside me. A bright smile paints his face as I hand him the peanut butter and a butter knife, and I watch as he wiggles in his seat, spreading it on his pancakes.
Though, spreading may be the wrong term for what he's doing.
It's more like he's dropping globs of it on and then smearing them until they're mostly covering the pancakes.
“What’s all this?” Tessa asks, tying a robe around her waist as she steps into the kitchen.
“Momma, Logan’s here! And he made pancakes,” he chimes, shoving a bite slathered in sticky syrup and peanut butter in his mouth.
She giggles. “I can see that.” Her hazel eyes dart in my direction, a rosy red hue rising to her cheeks. She crosses the room and pulls a mug down from the cupboard, filling it with coffee and hazelnut creamer. I hand her a spoon to stir the creamer in, and she takes it with a smile.
“Good morning, darlin’. I wasn’t sure when you needed to be up, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you.
” I place a hand on her hip and close the distance between us, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her temple.
I know I should probably step back and let her lead until she has a chance to talk to Jake and let him know I'm not just a friend, but keeping my hands off of her feels like torture.
She hums softly. “Good morning.” She raises the mug to her lips and takes a slow sip. “Careful, I could get used to waking up to this,” she teases.
My tongue digs into my cheek as I bite back my response. I want to tell her she should get used to it and I’m not going anywhere, but I’m very aware of the small child in the room, and I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t in front of him.
She holds the mug close to her chest, a gentle smile spreading across her face as she watches her son devour his breakfast. “Finish up, buddy. You've gotta get ready for school, and I’ve got to get to Lori’s.”
I’d love to offer to take him to school, but I don’t want to overstep or add any unnecessary stress to her morning by having to switch over his booster seat.
The thought crosses my mind to purchase one to have in my truck for him at all times, just in case, and I add it to my mental to-do list while I’m off duty for the next few days.
After we're all finished eating, I put the leftover pancakes in a container in the fridge and clean up the kitchen while they both get ready for the day. The morning was just about as simple as weekday mornings can be, and everything about it was perfect. I wouldn’t change a damn thing, aside from having to head home to shower and change.
But that can be rectified.